Beauty it is said, lies rather much in the eye of the beholder. Though ones' true love may resemble - to some at least - the wrong end of a cow, to your discerning eye there is surely none so fair. Consider as well the reaction by myself and other men of refinement, when confronted with local beauties built along the lines of our luckless bovine quadruped. Do we sneer and mock as others have done? No Sir/Madam we most certainly do not. The African perspective has always inclined, in all matters domestic (and rightly so) towards comfort and durability, as opposed to more uncertain fashion considerations. In Europe and other enlightened parts of our globe the more generously endowed are considered fat or overweight, with all the negative connotations these labels carry. In the so-called Third world we in our wisdom see beauty and elegance in all women of girth, and wealth and authority in our tubby men.
Speaking from some not inconsiderable experience in matters of comeliness and the flesh thereof, I draw your attention to that phenomenon commonly referred to as buttock/s. The Little Oxford calls it ; "either protuberance on lower rear part of human body". Bum, Butt and Arse are but a few of the other names this interesting and useful portion of our anatomy will answer to, and of course both sexes have a pair (each). Bear with me a moment, if you can't see where I'm going. Apart from sitting on our rear ends, both men and women use this device (bum) to send or transmit messages and invitations to unsuspecting members of the general public. I will now relate to you dear reader an experience so bizarre, so disturbing that you may well doubt its' veracity - or my own sanity for that matter. Having completed my own shopping on the fateful day - how the mighty are fallen! - and burdened with all the necessities a long weekend requires, I was making my way to the carpark in that typically inoffensive and harmless manner I have, when the very fabric of my dull existence was torn asunder. There before my staring eyes, oscillating, quivering and pulsing (simultaneously, mind you) were a matched pair of female buttocks clad in a black leather mini-skirt. Do you now begin to see? The fiendish ingenuity, the devilish cunning at work here. From that moment I was lost, and whatever intelligence I may have once possessed departed quickly to warmer climes. Mere mortal that I am, it was but a moments work to place my shopping on a convenient bench - beer and boerewors no less - and follow my nemesis. Need I go on? The end came an hour later, in the scorching sun, far, far from beer, carpark or boerewors. Perhaps she glimpsed the slinking,shuffling (by now wheezing) shadow that followed from one end of town to the other, at any rate her stride lengthened and the last I saw was a delightful bum in black beckoning still as it turned the corner. Oh cruel and heartless corner! The conniving bench on my return proved both beerless and boereworsless, although evidence of their existence lay torn and crushed around me. God is undoubtedly a wise God, but by God I sometimes wonder if He isn't a She. I remain,

Oupa Ngwane.

Oupa@swaziweb.net

Link Page	A rose by any other name.
Tribalisim in the Protectorate